Man In The Mirror
by lovelustinfatuation
Summary: A one shot about what goes through Adam's mind when he's getting ready in the morning.


_Fuck. Shit. Crap. Damn. Fuck._

If there's one thing that's always consistent about my mornings, that's it. The string of curse words that play through my head in sync with the beeping of my alarm. Usually everything that follows is never really different. This one particular morning I braced myself for the possibility of pain as I rolled over onto my stomach and reached my arm over, slamming the alarm off. Almost as soon as I winced, my scrunched up face started to relax. For once, there was no pain searing through my chest. Now, that's something that is not very common. I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of my bed, head in my hands as my eyes adjusted to the light that slowly crept through my bedroom window. Downstairs I could hear the typical morning noises: Drew slamming the cupboard shut, my mom bickering at him to be more respectful. I eventually stood up and shuffled my way into the bathroom, carefully shutting the door behind me. Now, like most teenagers I'm not really a morning person. But my reasons are different. Most teenagers are simply just lazy. They don't like getting up. They don't want to go to school. And while that's not necessarily false for me either, I have different reasons. Simply, I hate getting up because of all the trouble I have to go through every morning. Every morning when I wake up, I'm forced to come to the realization once again that I'm not who I want to be. I sighed as I reluctantly stripped. My shirt came off first. I stole a glance in the mirror. What a stupid mistake. I hate seeing them there. Those stupid curves on my chest that my body has been tainted with. I know most girls would kill to have tits like mine. But they disgust me. If it was possible, I'd give them up to any girl in a second. Out of anything, they're what make it hardest to be a believable guy. Not to mention, wrapping them hurts like a bitch. Though that doesn't stop me from doing it, life would just be so much easier if they could disappear. Next I tore off my pants. Now, this is what kills me the most. Sure, nobody else ever sees what lies beneath my pants unless I want them to. But I still see it. And every morning I hold my breath and hope by some miracle that what I see will be different than what was there the previous morning. It never is. The thing that truly keeps me from feeling like a real guy. The one thing that cannot be changed no matter how much poking and prodding I do to the rest of my body. Well, not without surgery anyways. Sure, I have my little attachment that I can put over it. And to other people, that makes it feel real. But it never fools me. It's just a replacement. Just a repair, like a temporary fix to something that's severely broken. But then my gaze reaches up to my abs, and I can't help but smile. Now, there's something to be proud about. I work out obsessively to make up for my lack of a flat chest and junk. And my beautifully toned six pack proves that fact. I hopped in the shower and threw my head back, letting out a slight moan as the hot water roamed down my freezing body. I reached for the soap and my hand froze as I saw the kind my mom had purchased. It was pretty typical of my mom to try to sneak girly things into my life. Like, for example buying some flower scented soap that would make smell like a girl. I rolled my eyes. No way in hell was I going to use it. I quickly washed my hair and jumped out of the shower and stared in the mirror. I was blessed with a face that isn't particularly feminine. I ran my fingers along my strong jawline. The only thing that was missing was my ability to grow facial hair. But, honestly that's not that big of a set-back. Sometimes I feel like my eyes give me away. I can never really tell. My fingers touched the damp ends of my short, messy hair. At least that's something I can always control. I ran a towel over it to dry it off and didn't bother to fix it other than pushing down some pieces that stuck straight up. I liked it that way, not too perfectly combed. Because really, how many guys truly take the time to fix their hair in the mornings? I reached into the cabinet and pulled out my chest wrap. Shoulders back. Stomach in. And then the fabric was being pulled across my boobs. Less and less of it filling my hands as it went around my body. I pulled it tight and it stuck to my body and made them throb. I bit down on my lip as I pulled one last time and secured it. I pulled a shirt out of the dirty clothes basket that lay on the bathroom floor. I smelled it. Definitely been worn, but not too bad. I slid it on and examined my chest. I ran my hands over and around, in and out until I was convinced that they were concealed. I stared back in the mirror and contemplated whether I wanted to put pajama pants back on or just a pair of boxers. Because, despite my troublesome routine…it was only the weekend.


End file.
